Maya Angelou once said "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you." In these past few moments, I’ve come to concur.
I had just hung up the phone and felt cold. It was an intense piercing feeling that accompanied a bitter, merciless chill. It was sharp and cut to the core of my being. I was literally numb, and it wasn't just because of the phone call I received. I was numb because of him. The dam had been broken, and my memories were flooding back.
“What’s wrong?” my roommate Natalie asked.
“Oh my God… I just… I can’t,” I started, and then quickly stopped.
“Who was that on the phone?” Natalie inquired, her tone a perfect marriage of curiosity and concern.
“The United States Navy,” I stated flatly.
“Victoria, the last time I checked, you weren’t friends with the United States Navy,” she countered.
“Oh, you’d be very surprised Natalie, you’d be very surprised,” I retorted.
“Victoria, come on, what’s going on here?” Natalie asked again.
“My father passed away last night. That was his superior calling all living relatives. It’s military protocol,” I explained.
“You have a father?” she inquired, absolutely shocked.
“Off and on. We haven’t seen each other for three years,” I admitted.
“You, my friend, have raw talent… you have an insane ability to never lie, but just leave major details out,” Natalie accused.
“Yeah, I do,” I admitted.
“Well that my friend, is going to end right now. I want to know what’s going on. I need to know what’s going on. I deserve to know what’s going on,” Natalie responded.
“Okay,” I surrendered, “it will probably come as a shock. But you have to remember, everybody has a dark side.”
“Gotcha,” Natalie agreed.
“Would you believe me if I told you that I spent the majority of my life trapped on a naval base?” I questioned.
Natalie just stared at me for a few minutes. I wasn’t really surprised by her response. Most people don’t believe me when I tell them. Some look at me with skepticism upon hearing the news, doubting that someone so liberal, so emotional, and so sensitive could grow up in a place cemented in such rigidity, such pain, and such cruelty. Others are puzzled when I tell them, as prior to our conversation, they usually think that a military base is populated solely by the men and women who pledged their lives to the protection of our country. They don’t realize that it’s much more than that. They aren’t aware that a mother or a father’s choice to serve binds not only the parent to the armed forces, but also the children involved.
“I just want you to understand Natalie, that I didn’t ask to be a part of any sort of military operation. Unfortunately, I didn’t get a choice. My father made it for me,” I explained.
“Continue. Now,” Natalie pleaded.


“My father chose to run away from home in 1982, at the age of eighteen. My grandfather became irate upon the discovery that his whipping post was planning to flee, and this time, it was for good. Fueled with fury, but probably fear as well, Grandpa slapped him across the face, forbidding him to leave. That only made my father want to escape even more. And so when he did, he ran straight to the United States Navy, never once looking back. It was as simple, (or as complex) as that.


By the time I was born, just a decade later, my father had made quite a name for himself at the Newport Naval Base stationed in Rhode Island. He was the Captain of an entire unit, which was comprised of over 500 men and women. As a senior officer, he was the sole person responsible for all seaward bound vessels which meant he had full and absolute command of three different Navy cruisers, four different missile submarines, and an assault vessel,” I revealed.

Natalie just sat there on the couch in our apartment, shaking her head.


I continued.
“To this day, when I’m trying to fall asleep at night, I can still see my father’s office in my mind. The memory of its door is the one that lingers strongest in my mind. When I close my eyes, I shudder at the sight of it. It was a heavy opaque oak door, twelve feet by five feet. It was massive and once it was shut, nobody in the office could see out, but more importantly, nobody walking past could peer inside. What happened behind the closed door of the office, stayed behind the closed door of the office. Once a person entered, there was no turning back.


In bold lettering, a sign which read “Hunger and Pain Are The Two Best Motivators” fiercely stared back at the oak door. And then there was the desk. The room was arranged in such a way that a maximum of two people could sit in front of the desk, but only one person could sit behind it. Nobody could sit there, and nobody ever even dared to sit there, but him. He wouldn’t even let his own daughter sit on his lap there.


My father allowed his rank of Captain at the Newport Naval Base to glare through everything he did in his civilian life in Rhode Island. Off the base Dad thought, rather unfortunately, that he could still retain his rank of Captain. But most civilians disagreed with him on this point.


When I was nine years old, I found myself being dragged to Authentic Soles, against my will. But Dad needed some new loafers, so off we went. Authentic Soles was located smack in the middle of the bustling city of Newport. It sat just off of the gorgeous harbor, and throughout the day, thousands of people walked past it. And most of these people were tourists, vintage tourists. Maps and camera phones in hand, they pounded the pavement trying to make the most of their Newport experience. Chatting without a care in the world, licking ice cream cones blissfully, and biking along the majestic Atlantic coast, they actually seemed to be enjoying themselves. And then there was us.


Unlike the tourists, who blended in with one another, Dad stood out like a sore thumb. Dressed fully in his military garments, he patrolled the sidewalks like he owned the city. I never did understand why he always insisted on wearing his uniform out in public. For me, the uniform was an unnecessary evil that attracted much attention towards the two of us. And for me, it was the kind of attention I wanted absolutely no part of, as it felt painfully unnecessary and unwanted. For this reason, I always tried to linger a few steps behind his heavy, weighted strides. I wanted to do everything I could to show the world that I didn’t associate myself with the Captain.
When we arrived at Authentic Soles and began to browse the aisles, I could finally breathe a sigh of relief. There wasn’t a soul inside, which meant I wouldn’t have to worry about any humiliating outbursts from Dad. Or so I thought. The sales clerk was sitting behind the cash register. She was an older woman, probably in her mid-fifties or sixties, and didn’t even glance up to greet us hello. Instead, she sat behind the counter, her nose tucked permanently behind her book. It was Dad who finally forced her to look up at us.
‘I need the brown ones with black soles. Size 12,’ Dad informed the clerk.
‘Yes sir, that will just be a few moments. Let me just grab the ladder so I can reach them off the top shelf,’ she replied.
The saleswoman left the counter, and rolled the ladder to aisle seven. She began to climb the steps. I watched her as she reached the top of the shelf, and grabbed a box from the stack. All of a sudden I noticed Dad making a beeline for the storage room.
‘Absolutely not sir. I apologize, but there is a long-standing policy here at Authentic Soles that clients are not permitted into the storage room,’ the saleswoman warned.
‘Lady, I just need to use the bathroom,’ he retorted.
‘Sir wait...don’t you see the sign? It says no public restrooms are available. You mustn’t go in there...it isn’t allowed. You don’t work here. If it’s an emergency, go to the flea market across the street. They have one on the first floor there. Please, don’t go in that back room,’ she pleaded.
‘But I have to use the restroom!’ Dad bellowed.
‘NO!’ the salesclerk shouted, clearly with more force than she had intended.
Dad started backing away from the door to the storage room, and began walking towards her, in a way that was as much terrifying as it was aggressive. I could see the fear growing exponentially in the woman’s eyes, as he crept closer and closer to her, clearly in an effort to intimidate the poor thing. The salesclerk fled off of the ladder, and ran back behind the counter. Her hands started to brace the telephone, as her fingers traced the numbers 9-1-1.
‘What aren’t you understanding about this? I’m a Captain for God’s sake,’ Dad bellowed as he raced out of the Authentic Soles storefront, slamming the front door forcefully behind him.
Relieved, but still quite alarmed and questioning, the sales clerk slowly turned to face me.
‘What is he the Captain of?’ she asked.
‘A sinking ship,’ I replied distastefully.”
Through speaking of my father in this moment, and giving my memories life, I’ve come to ponder how much Dad depended upon and lived solely for his title of Captain. The rank didn’t mark a piece of his manhood, rather, it completed his entire personhood. His fiery, intense, violent persona as Captain was in truth a shield for the emptiness and hollowness he was trying to hide from the world. It was easier to show the world his Captain side, as when he did, he avoided showing people the real James. And when he avoided introducing people around him to the real James, he could relish in a false sense of safety and security.

Natalie broke my long line of thoughts.

“So, if your Dad hadn’t stormed out of Authentic Soles, the saleswoman would have called 9-1-1?” Natalie asked, just for clarification.

“Yes, absolutely one-hundred percent yes,” I replied.

I started talking, and then stopped again.

“What is it?” Natalie asked.

“Oh Natalie, there were just so many times throughout our Newport days together when I wanted to tell him that he needed to stop treating everything and everyone like they were enemies blocking his war path that he had to demolish. I wanted to tell him that if he would just stop fighting through life and surrender, his life would cease to be a war,” I admitted regretfully.

“I don’t know Natalie. I think we should just stop and grab some dinner. This is just so… so… hopeless. The past is the past, what’s done is done,” I reasoned.

“Yeah, but just because it’s done, doesn’t mean that it goes away. This was your life, Victoria. He was your father. You try to minimize what you went through. Can you please continue? I’m learning so much about you,” Natalie stated.

Natalie was the first person, in my twenty years on this Earth, who I actually continued with.
“The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, yet expecting a different result. This is what my life became from ten years of age to fifteen years of age… an absolutely out of control insanity. Living with Dad for that half of a decade was emotionally and spiritually exhausting. He was an unpredictable, raving presence in my life. Anytime I was around him, I felt like I was walking on eggshells, and unable to gain steady footing.
I learned to practice avoidance. When he didn’t come looking for me, I certainly didn’t go looking for him. I had his schedule down pat. He left to go drill at 6:30 a.m. each morning. I made sure to stay in bed until at least 6:45 a.m. Monday through Friday. He came back from work at 4:30 p.m. each afternoon. Despite the fact that I loathe running of any kind, I signed up for winter and spring track after school. It gave me an excuse to stay after school for an extra two and a half hours.
However, in the beginning of my teen years, he started to not come home at 4:30 p.m. each afternoon. He stayed out late, and didn’t come home the way he left it. He began to get frivolous with how he spent money. He started doing things that were, plainly and simply, irrational. It was at that point that I mark his permanent resignation from his full-time position of fatherhood.
One day after spring track and field practice, my younger brother Spencer and I were sitting around the kitchen table, doing our homework. My Mom was out grocery shopping, and I didn’t know when she would be coming home. Out of the blue, the telephone rang. It was the Military Dentistry, calling to confirm our appointments for the following week. Dad answered the phone, and during the conversation, I could hear the secretary ask him about my date of birth, social security number, and medical information to update my record. Then I heard footsteps.
‘When were you born?’ Dad asked me.
‘Uh, fifteen years ago,’ I replied, with an air of annoyance in my tone.
‘Oh. Well, here’s the phone. You can speak with the secretary… she wants some information to update your medical record. Oh, and by the way, can you update Spencer’s while you got her on the phone?’ he asked, in a way that was more demanding and telling than questioning.
‘Well, why can’t you just tell her?’ I asked.
‘You really think I know when you kids were born, and what the contact information for you doctor is?’ Dad questioned mockingly.
‘Yeah, I guess I did. Cause I’m like, your daughter,’ I informed him.
He just held the phone out for me to take from him.
I reached for it in defeat, and said ‘hello’ to the secretary.
He walked back into the other room, leaving me there to figure it out on my own.
It’s tough when the roles are reversed in a family, and the child starts acting more like the parent and adult figure than the innocent kid,” I told Natalie.

“So your Dad didn’t even know when you were born?” Natalie asked.

“Yes, that is correct. My Dad had absolutely no idea when I was born,” I clarified.

“Victoria, how did you live like that? And, how have you not only survived him, but thrived in spite of him?” Natalie wondered.

“Well, at that point in my life, I was fully aware that enough was enough. I had realized that it was stupid to stay. I was in this constant state of distress. After too many sleepless nights, I came to the conclusion that I didn’t deserve the hell that he was putting me through,” I declared.

“And, so knowing you, you sat up at night researching potential avenues you could take. You weren’t going to run away, backpack and cookies in hand, instead, you wanted a plan. A plan that could carry with you later in life,” Natalie predicted.

“Precisely,” I validated.

“You should have seen my father’s face when I told him that I was leaving. You should have seen him when he found out that I was leaving high school early to attend Boston University to major in writing. He was quite literally beside himself.
‘You’ll never make it,’ he informed me.
‘Well, you won’t know until I try,’ I countered.
In June of 2008, two days after I graduated from my junior year, I drove off that Naval Base. It was the most liberating thing I’d ever done in my life,” I revealed.

“Did he say goodbye to you, or tell you he loved you before you left?” Natalie asked.

“No” I declared, “He said nothing. He watched me leave out of the front window, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He literally couldn’t have cared less.”

“You, my friend are a walking miracle,” Natalie declared, “It is an absolute honor and privilege to know you.”

“Are you just saying that?” I asked.

“Absolutely not!” she replied.

“Does this change the way you think about me?” I asked with skepticism.

“Victoria, I could never stop being your friend. I love you. I’m just shocked… you have an air of confidence and wisdom about you that is so, so, you. I have always admired how “together” you are, how “together” everything you do is, and now, I find out this...” Natalie stated.

“I didn’t want to lie, I wanted to tell you, it’s just so… difficult, heavy, and complex,” I promised.

“Victoria, you never lied to me. You don’t lie, you always tell the truth. It’s just that on a regular basis, the truth you tell is just a part of or a snippet of a larger truth,” Natalie explained.

“Thanks Nat,” I smiled.

“Can I just ask one more question?” she asked.

“Sure,” I replied.

“Are you going to go to your father’s funeral Victoria?” she asked.

I sat there for a minute.
“No. I don’t feel like I have to,” I replied, remembering that disparaging and dismissive tone of his that I had grown so much to detest.
He never even tried to conceal his disgust and complete lack of interest and confidence in me. But it wasn’t always what he said that left the most tragic scars, it was what he implied. It was the way he left things painfully open for interpretation. It was his habitual tendency to answer my questions with a haunting question of his own. It was that chronic wave of dismissal he sent thundering through me that always left me feeling small inside. There was nothing that going to his funeral was going to do for me. There is no such thing as closure, there’s just understanding. And through my conversation, I had come to understand so much about my father, who had died a broken man. Giving my memories breath and life was freeing.